Old Stories

How do we know,
If we ever could,
All we need,
Or all that’s good.
 
We start out young,
And might grow old,
With stories we tell,
As we unfold.
 
With stories we’re told.
Though often true,
We’ve had some time,
To think things through.
 
As we often do,
We think things through,
And the stories we tell,
May not be true.
 
Even so,
When a story’s told,
A lesson learned,
May unfold.
 
Even so,
We may discern,
From stories told,
The lesson learned.
 
Who are we,
That we might see,
A thread of truth,
That just might be?
 
Who are we,
That we might hear,
A thread of truth,
That we might fear?
 
Lessons in life,
Will always be,
The part of knowing,
That isn’t free.
 
There’s never an end,
Of the need to find,
A thread of truth,
Or peace in our mind.
 
There’s never an end,
To the stories we’re told,
Or the need for peace,
As we grow old.